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Saturday, 14 May 2016

A perfect New York Saturday morning goes something like this: I wake up slightly before the alarm, as the sun is creeping in through the blinds, promising a day of warmth, bare legs, and blue skies. B and I then set off on a quick run around the park - it's sweaty, and warm, and we're up before the crowds so have the streets to ourselves. We sprint home, de-sweat, change into summer outfits, and rush off to meet friends for breakfast.

A feast of coffee, avocado toast, and poached eggs is ordered. This is definitely the most reliably fantastic breakfast. I need to move to the West coast for improved access to avocados (and sunshine). Santa Barbara, here I come.

Once we've wiped our plates clean, we pose outside in the sunshine for a quick photo to remember this happy morning, before going our separate ways.

A stroll through Washington Square Park, and up 5th Avenue leads me to my next destination: Union Square Greenmarket. It has been too long since I've roamed the stalls with no meal plans, nowhere else to be, and no raindrops falling on my head. There are spring greens, ramps, garlic, herbs, fresh cheese, and multiple flower stalls selling hyacinths, tulips, potted plants, cacti, peonies, buttercups, and lilacs.

I struggle to decide between which petals to buy, and eventually settle for the wild-looking lilacs: They seem more suitable for my weekend of directionless meandering. I fill the rest of my bag with green leaves, radishes, and fresh camomile, and rush home to sit out on our sunny patio and drink a pot of camomile tea, soaking in the last of the rays before the clouds come in.

Saturday, 7 May 2016

B and I have officially survived our first year of married life. To say that it had been a whirlwind would honestly be an understatement. We’re hoping that the next 365 days together will be slightly more stable and calm than the first 366. Let's try not to suddenly move across the world, get through 3 jobs, and build any Ikea furniture in the forthcoming year. To celebrate our marital achievement, we treated ourselves to dinner at Via Carota.

Via Carota made its way on to Pete Wells' list of the best restaurants of 2015. On this list he described it as where he sends people 'to get unfussy, delicious food in the West Village'. We'd also heard good things about the pasta and the Negroni. We needed no other reason to choose this is as our anniversary date spot.

Early on a Tuesday evening, the majority of the tightly-packed tables in the windows are already taken. We take the remaining empty one, and sit bolt upright on the Welsh (yes, really, Welsh) chapel chairs, which conveniently have the menus tucked in to the back - where the bible would have been in their first life - for easy, and constant access.

The light pours in through the huge windows, severe light fittings hang from the ceiling, and the plain wooden tables contrast with the smart marble bar, behind which sits endless bottles of amaro, and a blackboard listing several classic Italian cocktails. A classic Negroni and a Negroni Sbagliato (like the classic, but with Prosecco where there would be gin) were ordered, and were sipped alongside chewy, airy sourdough, doused in zingy extra-virgin olive oil.

Burrata with dandelion greens, anchovies, and sundried tomatoes got those taste buds buzzing. It didn't look like much, but the burrata exploded with a creamy interior, which stood up powerfully to the salty mush of anchovies and the sweet tomatoes.

Vegetables feature heavily on Via Carota's menu. With no less than 15 different vegetable-focused options, we tried not let ourselves get overwhelmed by all the choice. We settled on kale doused in crunchy croutons of lardo, which took only seconds to devour: If you want to feel like you're eating your greens, but actually just want to eat salami, this is the way to enjoy them. A more delicate grilled polenta with ramps and bacon arrived at the same time, and we vowed to cook and eat more polenta in the upcoming months. This could well be the best ramps dish of the year so far. And that's a competitive award to win.

We then shared mushroom tortelli and coniglio fritto, aka fried rabbit. The tortelli were wonderfully simple. The lack of focus on presentation was authentically Italian - no garnishes, no extra colors, no smears of purée to be found here. Instead all the attention and care has gone into perfecting the pasta. This is the most comforting, heart-warming dish . Exactly what everyone needs on a rainy weekday. The rabbit was served similarly simply, on top of a fried piece of bread. A crispy, crunchy exterior revealed juicy, intensely flavored rabbit meat inside. My younger self would not have been happy that I had opted to celebrate my anniversary by eating Thumper, but my older, greedier self, was pleased with this tasty decision.

We finished our glass of Chianti and eventually sacrificed our table to the ever-growing line of hungry people in desperate need of a creamy bowl of mushroom tortelli.

Thursday, 5 May 2016

I have, after almost 8 months of living in this city, come to the conclusion that New Yorkers have asbestos hands. Not because they’re often seen pulling a hot bagel out of the toaster (New Yorkers don’t toast their bagels FYI), nor because the restaurant staff repeatedly set down searing hot plates with their bare hands, but because of their endless hot and cold drink consumption.

No true New Yorker ever goes more than 15 minutes of walking down 5th avenue without clutching a drink in one hand. Whether it be a businessman with his classic paper cup of Joe, a lycra-clad Lululemon-ite with her cold-pressed green juice, or a sleep-deprived young parent with an iced latte, everyone is always carrying a drink of some description. I enjoy my walk from the subway stop at 14th street to my office door on the corner of 20th much more if I have a coffee in my hand. This is not because I know that this drink I’m clutching will keep my energy levels up for an extra hour of the day, but because, strolling down 5th avenue past the food trucks, the skyscrapers, the American flags, looking at the Empire State building in the distance, I feel like one of them. Like a true New Yorker.

But really, I still stand out. Because I don’t have asbestos hands. Whether I’m clutching a hot or iced coffee, I spend my time holding it moving my hand round the cup into all sorts of different positions, as my finger tips gradually burn or freeze. No matter what the weather is outside, the hot coffee will either be setting my fingers alight, or turning them into ice cubes. I always put one of those paper holders round the cup of hot coffee, but it’s still not enough. Sometimes I even pick up extra napkins to protect myself, but I still have to constantly keep my hands moving, to help avoid the risk of dropping my coffee on the sidewalk because my fingers just can’t take the temperature any more. If it’s an iced coffee, then there’s no cardboard holder option. Somehow I have to cope with holding on to a block of ice as I walk to work, meaning I arrive at the office door feeling like I have an icicle for a hand. This consequently means I can’t type anything for the first ten minutes spent sitting at my desk as my fingers are numb.

Another reason I don’t fit in is because I refuse to drink iced coffee all year round. For some reason New Yorkers seem to think that the fact that they’re trekking through a foot of snow isn’t a good enough incentive to switch to a hot drink for a change. Maybe they have asbestos bodies too. It must be a result of the vast quantities of ice that have been put into every American drink ever made or served in the history of this country.

One final reason why I stand out (and no, it’s not my accent), besides my bizarre finger hopping movements as I precariously balance my coffee on searing finger tips, is the size of my caffeine kick. Mine is what is called ‘small’. This doesn’t mean that it’s small. It’s actually fairly large. But for America, it’s tiny. Miniscule. Probably not worth drinking. Coffee portion sizes are fairly terrifying in this city. But my problem with the larger sizes isn’t necessarily the amount of caffeine in them (sometimes I could really do with an extra buzzing boost), but rather than fact that there’s no way of holding them. How would I manage to balance a larger cup on the tip of my little finger tip while I walked five blocks?

So I guess that until I get asbestos hands, I’ll never be a true New Yorker. If you have any advice on how to desensitize my hands to heat, please let me know. I’m trying to fit in, and this small detail is setting me back.

About Me

I'm Hannah, a twenty-something Londoner who's found herself living in the Big Apple. Flicking through these pages, you'll be able to follow my journey of baking, cooking, eating and living in the magical city that is NYC.